


Déjà Vu in the Promised Land

by china_shop



Series: Waltzverse [4]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Anal Sex, Case Fic, Domestic Bliss, Event Planning, F/M, Forgery, Friendship, Kid Fic, M/M, Multi, New Job, New Relationship, Threesome - F/M/M, intimacy is hard, threesome sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-08
Updated: 2015-07-08
Packaged: 2018-04-08 07:03:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4295208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/china_shop/pseuds/china_shop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Neal starts work at Burke Premiere Events, his first client is an aspiring art thief. (A sequel to Implausible Equations.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Déjà Vu in the Promised Land

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sherylyn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherylyn/gifts).



> For Sherylyn, with many thanks for her donation to Nepal earthquake relief, via FandomAid.
> 
> Much gratitude to mergatrude for encouragement, first reading and beta; to ushobwri for support; and to Sherylyn for Ameripicking. <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 ETA: And thank you, thank you to Kanarek13 for the beautiful cover, wheeee!
> 
> Note: Technically, at this point in the timeline Neal should be thinking of himself as Victor, but I wanted to write him as Neal, so… *handwaves cheerfully*

At four-thirty P.M. on Neal's first day working at Burke Premiere Events, the bell over the door rang, and a young man with glossy hair, a toothpaste smile and "trust fund" written all over him strode in and announced, "I'm hiring you to throw my grandmother a surprise birthday party on Friday."

Neal had spent most of the day shadowing Yvonne and minding Mikey. Now he was supposed to be familiarizing himself with folders of venues, caterers and other suppliers, but he was actually relaxing on the couch with a cup of coffee, drumming his thumb against the brochure for the Prince George Ballroom and thinking about buying a car. 

He put the neatly labeled Venues folder aside and sized up the client. The kid was clearly up to no good. 

On the other hand, Neal hadn't had an uninterrupted night's sleep in a week, thanks to sudden-onset parenthood and sharing a bed with two very sexy people. And being suspicious of arrogant young men might just be a hangover from his years working in White Collar. 

El had taken Mikey home. Yvonne was visiting a florist with the Farnsworths. And Jeannie, who was constantly munching crudités and drinking gallons of water, was either in the storeroom checking inventory or in the restroom. Neal was going to have to field this one himself. He quashed his reservations and amped up his smile.

"Friday. That's pretty short notice for the guests," he said, mildly. "Have a seat, and let's start at the beginning. What's your name?"

"Calvin Sullivan Jr." The kid stayed standing, radiating impatience. The knot in his Yale college crest tie was perfectly symmetrical. "I want to hold it in the Blue Room of the Vogel Institute."

"And if that's not available, I'm sure we can find something else suitable," said Neal. "What kind of party did you have in mind—a sit-down dinner, a buffet, finger food?"

"You handle the details, but it has to be the Vogel Institute," said Sullivan.

"We'll certainly do our best to make that happen," said Neal. "I'm sure your grandmother will understand. What can you tell me about her?"

"She's turning 68," said Sullivan. "She likes gardening and opera."

"And Cubism," said Neal. 

"What?"

"The Blue Room is the Cubist collection," said Neal.

"Oh. I don't know anything about that," said Sullivan. "I only know it's very important to her." 

"If it's going to be a surprise party, are you sure she doesn't have other plans—opera tickets or something?" said Neal.

"Look, getting her there is my problem," said Sullivan sharply. "You just make the party happen. Eight o'clock on Friday in the Blue Room."

"As I said, we'll do our best. Do you have a guest list?" Neal smiled politely at Sullivan's blank look and held up a placating hand. "If you're inviting them yourself, a headcount will do. We need to know numbers for catering purposes."

Sullivan scowled. "I'll bring you a guest list tomorrow."

"Certainly, sir. And what kind of budget do you have in mind?" asked Neal, half out of curiosity to see if the kid had thought this through at all.

Sure enough, Sullivan waved that aside too. "Write up a quote. I'll let you know if it's too high." He headed for the door. 

"Wait," said Neal. "We may need to contact you if we have logistical questions."

Sullivan took out his wallet and gave Neal an embossed card. "My details."

"Great," said Neal. "We'll work up a quote and see you tomorrow."

Sullivan left, and a second later Jeannie came out of the storeroom at the back. "Everything okay? I heard the bell."

"We have a new client. He just left." Neal held up the card, coming toward her.

They met at the desks, and Jeannie took the card. "Calvin Sullivan Jr.," she read, frowning, and gave it back to him. "Why didn't you come get me?"

"He just walked in and started talking to me." Neal leaned against his and El's desk, putting a bit of space between them. Jeannie had a nice smile and seemed to like him, but she'd clearly been warned he was trouble and had been—somewhat apologetically—avoiding him. He didn't want to force the issue.

Now she looked suspicious. "We almost never get cold walk-ins. They always call first."

"I don't think Calvin Sullivan Jr. knows the rules," said Neal, ignoring the fact that neither did he. "He's an undergrad. He wants us to throw a birthday party for his grandmother this Friday at the Vogel Institute." He told her everything he'd gleaned, which wasn't much. "He's coming back tomorrow with a guest list."

"What time tomorrow?" Jeannie raised her eyebrows when he didn't answer. Neal was getting an uncomfortable feeling. "Did you accept the job?"

"I didn't get a chance to accept or reject," said Neal. "He assumed."

"Why didn't you come get me?" asked Jeannie again.

"I was—" Treating Sullivan like a suspect, not a client. Used to working on his own initiative. "I thought I could handle it."

"Did you talk about his budget? Did you check the calendar? We usually charge a fifteen percent surcharge on events that are less than ten days away. We pass most of that on to our suppliers." Jeannie leaned on the desk across from him and ate a celery stick. "I'm sure you meant well, Victor, but we have a system."

"We can still add the surcharge. He told me to work up a quote." Neal gave her a confident smile. "Trust me, I know his type. The more we charge, the more he'll think he's getting his money's worth."

But Jeannie shook her head. "That's not how we do business."

Neal gave up trying to put a positive spin on the situation. He'd been conflicted about his first client anyway: wanting to impress El and Yvonne and convince them he could do this, but not trusting Sullivan an inch. He switched to damage control. "Sorry. Guess I still have a lot to learn."

"It's your first day." She leaned forward and looked past him at the wall planner, her mouth scrunching thoughtfully to the side. "We have a boutique opening on Friday from ten-thirty A.M. till nine P.M., and Sheri Maddison has an appointment in the afternoon, but maybe we can work something out."

"If Peter can take Mikey that will free up El and me," said Neal.

Jeannie blinked and focused on him, tilting her head. She tapped a carrot stick against her palm. "You and El are close. Do you know Peter too?"

She didn't know. Neal felt a swell of pride and confidence but tried to play it down. He didn't want to sound like he was bragging. "I live with them."

"Oh, a family friend." Jeannie was obviously trying to reconcile this with whatever Yvonne had told her about him. "Have you known them long?"

"Off and on for years," said Neal. "And we're not just friends."

"Family, then. Have they adopted you?" There was something faintly patronizing in her tone—or perhaps it hit too close to home. Then her expression cleared. "Oh, you and El are related! I can see the resemblance. Sorry, I didn't realize. Brother and sister? Cousins?"

By now it felt like laboring the point, but he and Peter and El had talked about coming out. Peter had told Diana and Jones and even Hughes, and Neal and El had to work with Jeannie; they couldn't hide it. "We're not related. We're lovers." It would have sounded less awkward in French. "I'm Mikey's other dad."

"Huh," said Jeannie. She folded her arms across her belly in a protective gesture that was probably unconscious. "That sounds complicated."

"It's not," said Neal. "So, what do we do about Calvin Sullivan Jr.?"

Jeannie took another carrot stick from the plate on her desk without looking and accepted the change of subject gratefully. "That's up to Yvonne. Or, I suppose, El now she's back. And if the party is fixed for this Friday, we either have to take it or back out ASAP. There's not much time for him to find another planner."

"Right." Neal had his own suspicions about the party, but he was supposed to be thinking like an event manager. A trainee one. "Yvonne's out with the Farnsworths."

"I'll text her, and we can discuss it as soon as she gets back. Where are your notes from the meeting?" Jeannie held out her hand.

"I'll write them down now," said Neal. That would at least give him a chance to flesh them out a little. But even when he had, they barely filled a quarter page. He listed the other questions, the ones Sullivan had refused to answer and showed them to Jeannie. "What else should I have asked?"

Jeannie reached for a folder and handed him a New Client form. Of course they had a form. They had folders and flowcharts for everything. How much of that was El's influence and how much Yvonne's? There had to be some scope for innovation and intuition or he'd go crazy.

On the other hand, there was El, Peter and Mikey, who were well worth a little bureaucratic tedium. And he was an ex-con, lucky to have a job at all. It would be fine. 

Yvonne returned half an hour later, ran through pretty much the same questions Jeannie had asked and looked equally suspicious, but there was nothing to be done. "Call the client and see if you can pin him down to a time tomorrow," she said. "I'll try the Vogel Institute and make a preliminary booking."

"He wants the Blue Room," said Neal. "It's their Cubist collection."

"At this short notice, he'll take what he can get," said Yvonne, already dialing. 

Sullivan wasn't answering his phone, so Neal left a message, and then it was the end of Neal's first day at BPE, and Yvonne sent him home. Once outside, he texted Peter and El to tell them he'd be late and then called Mozzie. "I need a favor."

"What kind of favor?" Mozzie was still mad about the Faked Death con as well as Neal's retiring; he didn't leap to help out like he used to. 

Maybe some French pastries would help. "Meet me at Ceci Cela on Spring Street."

Mozzie sighed. "I'm on my way."

 

*

 

At the patisserie, Neal ordered in French and sat at one of the small tables, leafing through Le Monde and waiting for his café au lait and Mozzie to arrive. One of the staff was Parisian, leaning across the counter to chat to a friend in a wheelchair who was visiting from home, and it was nice to hear the familiar flow of the language. 

"Salut!" said Mozzie, sliding into the seat across from him. "What's the code rouge?"

"Hey, Moz. I need you to look into someone." Neal folded his paper.

Moz crossed his arms. "Will this vetting lead to the commission of a crime?" 

"It might stop one," said Neal, half joking. Moz looked unimpressed, so Neal elaborated. "Not the way you're thinking. It's not a mark; it's a client."

A waiter brought both their coffees, and Mozzie wrapped his hands around his cup. His lips were thin. "Neal, do you know why I hung around for three years, exposing my identity to the Federal Bureau of Indoctrination? Helping you help the Man? Because we were partners. We had a future together. And then you conned me, your trusty confidant and best friend. And then you had the chutzpah to go straight." His steely gaze was out of place in the jaunty little bistro, but Neal knew better than to question his sincerity. "We're not partners anymore, Neal. I'm not a multi-purpose app on your phone."

"No, but we're still friends," said Neal, and stopped. He knew how much Peter had suffered as a result of his con, and he was starting to make amends there, but he'd never really considered that Mozzie had been hurt too. Maybe even more than Peter. He met his eye. "I'm sorry I conned you, Moz. I really am. I was in a bad place after my father and Rebecca and—everything. It seemed like the right thing to do."

"But it wasn't." Light reflected off Mozzie's glasses, obscuring his reaction, but his chin remained stubborn.

"No, it wasn't. You deserved better." Neal risked a tentative smile. "You helped Peter and El bring me home."

"Yes," said Mozzie, exasperated, "because I thought you needed closure, so you could resume your true calling. You know, you still could. I told El—event planning would make a perfect cover."

"I'm sorry." The miracle of a family that had fallen into his lap was too precious to risk. And after working for the Feds, after everything, he'd lost his appetite for crime.

Moz took a long sip of coffee and sighed. "He who cannot forgive breaks the bridge over which he himself must pass."

"George Herbert."

"By the way, I told them you'd pay for my coffee." He jerked his head at the bistro counter. "Now, who do you need vetted?"

"Calvin Sullivan Jr.," said Neal, and told him about the meeting at the showroom. 

Mozzie's eyebrows drew together as he digested the tale. "You think Junior's angling for an inheritance?"

"Well, his grandmother's only 67, and he wasn't putting any effort into the details of the party. If he's kissing ass, he's got a lot to learn." Neal dipped his head. "I think there's something he wants in the Blue Room at the Vogel Institute. Oh, and one other thing—I got a look in his wallet when he gave me his contact details, and I saw a midnight blue card with this insignia in gold. It might be a clue." He passed across the sketch he'd made of the symbol—a stylized bull's head.

Mozzie picked up the slip of paper, his eyes growing round. "You're sure this is what you saw?"

"Yeah, why? What is it?" Neal leaned forward. "Do you know?"

"This is the emblem of the Merovingian Society," said Mozzie, in hushed tones. "The highest echelon of the Skull and Bones."

"A secret society inside a secret society?" 

"Protégés of the deep state," said Mozzie. "They control everything. They even have members on the Supreme Court! Rumor suggests their initiation rites involve a number of self-incriminating acts. They instigate and document the misdeeds and then hold them over their members' heads, so the society can always control its members."

"Acts like art theft?" Neal's heart sank. The last thing he needed was more powerful enemies. He'd been telling himself he was overreacting, that under the influence of sleep deprivation, his imagination had turned an innocent encounter with a wealthy brat into something more sinister. But if there really was something to it, he had a decision to make. 

He'd told Elizabeth he wouldn't work in law enforcement anymore. More importantly, he'd promised he wouldn't drag Peter back into the field, that it wouldn't be like before. But if an opportunity arose for them to work a case together, Peter would jump at it. No amount of reasoning would dissuade him. 

"See what you can find out," he told Moz. "And be discreet. For now, this is 'need to know' only."

 

*

 

Stepping inside the townhouse put everything else in perspective. Even with Mikey crying in the kitchen and toys all over the living room floor, it felt like a refuge. A place where he was loved and wanted. Nothing else mattered here—not work or sinister secret societies or even Mozzie's frustration with his life choices.

He stuck his head in the kitchen doorway and said over Mikey's squalling, "Sorry I'm late. I'm just going to run upstairs and change, and then I'll help out."

"Hey, there you are." Peter, already in t-shirt and jeans, turned from the stove with a welcoming smile that made Neal itch to kiss him. 

But El looked tired and harassed, and said, "MonsterPants has been demanding your presence ever since we got home. Could you just reassure him you haven't been, I don't know, abducted by aliens before you go upstairs?"

Mikey was flushed and upset. His face and hands were smeared with some kind of orange puree, his hair was in disarray, and he was hammering his little fists on the tray of the high chair. Neal's heart went out to him. He forgot about his suit and went to give him a cuddle. "Hey, buddy. Ça va? I was just off getting supplies for our next jungle adventure. Nothing to make a fuss about, shhhhh. Yeah, that's right, you wouldn't want us to run into a tiger without a good supply of tiger food. It might decide to eat _you_ , starting with your toes."

"He's getting used to having Papa around," said El. 

"We all are," said Peter. "Oh look, he's using your tie as a towel."

"I never liked this tie anyway." Neal kissed Mikey's sticky cheek. "What is that, carrot?"

"Mashed carrots and sweet potatoes." El stood up and stretched out her back. "Okay, see, Papa's home safe. And now it's time for your bath, Captain Distress Siren, before you turn everything else in the house orange."

"Dinner in fifteen minutes," said Peter.

"Make it twenty." El took Mikey. He'd stopped crying, and his eyes were falling shut. "All that yelling takes it out of you, doesn't it, Puddlepants. Come on, let's get you cleaned up. Say goodnight."

"Dada," said Mikey, twisting to see Peter.

"He wants us all," said Neal, amused. "I can relate. Bonne nuit, cheri."

Peter came over and gave Mikey a quick kiss. "Be good for Momma, okay?"

"Mama," said Mikey, followed by something long and indecipherable. El whisked him upstairs. 

Peter hastened back to the oven. "You still going to change?"

Neal looked down at himself. "I think that horse has bolted." He removed his tie and cleaned himself with a paper towel as best he could, then came up behind Peter and slid his arms around his waist, leaning his head on Peter's shoulder. Breathing in his scent mixed with the aroma of stir-fry. "Hi, honey, how was your day?"

"Jones is on the trail of an elusive bond forger. Reminds me of someone," said Peter. "How about you? How was your first day?"

"Great," said Neal, with more enthusiasm than he actually felt. "I've already bagged my first client."

Peter sent him a sidelong glance, as if he couldn't quite get his head around the idea of Neal enjoying working at BPE.

"Really," said Neal. He grabbed a handful of cutlery and went to set the table. 

Peter missed working with him. Yvonne and Jeannie didn't trust him. Even El's cheer was forced, as if she wasn't convinced he wanted to be there. And Moz was disappointed he'd retired. In theory, Neal liked the idea of a career in event management well enough—and even more, the prospect of working with El—but he wouldn't know for sure how he felt about it until he'd convinced all the naysayers. Right now, he had too much to prove to stop and reflect.

In Paris, and even before then, during his parole, work had been an escape from solitude. Oh, he'd enjoyed the challenges and showing off his talents, and he'd taken pride in his professional achievements. But what had driven him to the office every day was being part of a team. The need for companionship. Now his life was brimming with love and affection. He could be with his favorite team without getting out of bed. The motivation to work was weaker—more a vague sense that he should do something with his life, and he didn't want Peter and Elizabeth to think he was a deadbeat.

For now, that motivation would have to be enough.

 

*

 

Over dinner, El raised the subject of holding a dinner party. "Just a few neighbors," she told Neal, then sent Peter a wry glance. "We can't leave it too long, or Trey and Sheila will think we've held out on them, and my plan will backfire."

"Your plan?" said Neal.

"I'm launching a charm offensive to announce your presence to the neighborhood," she told him. "You're my secret weapon."

"How's Friday?" said Peter.

"We're working," said Neal. "Speaking of which, any chance you can take Mikey on Friday afternoon and evening? We might need all hands on deck." He sent El a confident smile. "New client."

Peter nodded. "Should be do-able. I'll check my schedule."

"If not, maybe Moz can babysit," said El. "I'll ask him."

Neal didn't want her talking to Mozzie right now, but he couldn't say that. He'd have to rely on Mozzie's discretion. And speaking of discretion… "By the way, I came out about us to Jeannie."

El stopped with her fork halfway to her mouth. A faint frown crossed her face. "I thought Yvonne would have told her. I should make sure she knows it's not a secret."

Yvonne had refrained from mentioning his relationship, but if he was reading things right, she'd made a point of warning Jeannie about his past; Neal was going to have to work extra hard to earn their trust. Which meant this was the worst possible time to have a client use them as cover for a crime; Yvonne and Jeannie might assume he was in on it.

"How's Saturday for Trey and Sheila?" said El.

"As far as I know, we're free in the evening," said Peter, "but Diana's friend Rayne invited us over Saturday afternoon to meet her partners. They've been in a triad for five years. Could be interesting."

Neal stared. It wasn't like Peter to suggest a social occasion with strangers—especially when he could otherwise be watching sports on TV or playing with Mikey. "Did Diana blackmail you into it?"

"She thought we should meet some people in a similar situation, and I happen to agree." Peter shrugged. "I hear Rayne's husband is an expert on rare coins, if you need an incentive."

"I think an afternoon outing followed by a dinner party would probably be too much for Monster Boy," said El. "Especially while he's adjusting to spending some of his time at work. I really don't want to increase the chance of him having a meltdown while Sheila's here—that might finish me off."

"Sunday, then," said Neal. It was the practical answer, even though locking the world outside and spending at least one day of the weekend alone with his family, just relaxing, was far more appealing.

"Sunday," said Peter.

"Sunday," said El. "I'll call them after dinner and see if they're all free." She squeezed Neal's hand. "They're okay, really—just a little intense. And Will and Lucas are lovely."

Neal squeezed back. God, she was beautiful. One glass of wine and she'd already recovered from a difficult afternoon with Mikey. Being back at work suited her. Maybe one day soon Neal would share her pleasure in it.

After dinner, Peter and El took Satchmo for a walk while Neal cleared the dishes away and put the coffee on. He'd been back from Paris less than a week, and they were already functioning like a well-oiled machine, taking turns at the evening chores—cooking, putting Mikey down, and clearing away. It felt so right, it made a lump in his throat. How had he lived without this for so long? The secret of Calvin Sullivan Jr. nagged at him, but he couldn't do anything to risk his new life. He'd promised himself. And that meant keeping his mouth shut.

 

*

 

They went to bed early. There was nothing on TV that could compete with Neal's combination of weariness and lust, and the others obviously felt the same. Peter was in the middle tonight, and Neal lay in his arms, kissing him luxuriously, while Peter's hands returned again and again to his ass, wordlessly raising the issue of fucking. They hadn't done that yet; they'd all been too caught up in each other to take the time to be careful. But maybe tonight was the night. Neal couldn't tell Peter all his secrets, but he could give him this.

The next time Peter's hand moved away, Neal drew it back to his ass. Peter stilled for a moment, his teeth gentle on Neal's lip, then letting it slip free. "Neal?"

His voice was low and full of heat.

Neal pulled back enough to meet his darkened gaze, his own breath heavy with anticipation. "You know the basics, right?"

Peter didn't answer, but his lips twitched into a small smile, and it was a rhetorical question anyway. The three of them had spent nearly an hour, each on their own laptop, Googling variations on gay sex and threesome sex on Thursday evening, the day after Neal had come back. "For inspiration," El had said, "so we don't have to reinvent the wheel. And to make sure we don't miss out on anything particularly awesome." "You two are all the inspiration I need," Peter had said, and by that time, they'd all been so horny, they'd shoved the laptops aside, quickly followed by their clothes. 

From beyond Peter, the sound of a drawer opening and closing, and then El leaned over, offering lube. "You'll need this, I think." Her voice was nearly as throaty as Peter's.

"You don't mind?" Neal asked her. He was pretty sure that once Peter had finished with him, he wasn't going to be in any state to do much for her.

"Are you kidding? I'm dying to see this." She kissed Peter's temple and brushed her thumb down Neal's cheek like a benediction, smoothing his beard. "Anyway, one of us has to be available when MonsterPants wakes at the exact wrong moment."

Peter caught El's hand and kissed it, then squirted some lube onto his fingers and moved them back to Neal's ass. The lube was cold, making Neal shiver. Or maybe it wasn't the cold, but the intimacy of it. The awareness of letting Peter take charge, his blunt fingers pressing firm and gentle, taking his time before he entered him. Neal deliberately slowed his breath and closed his eyes, focusing on the sensations, how safe and real it all felt. And then Peter started kissing him, just as slow and insistent, sliding his tongue into Neal's mouth at the same time he pushed his finger into Neal's ass.

The unaccustomed stretch was weird and erotic, despite the burn, and Neal relaxed into it, pushing back as Peter went deeper, feeling his arousal spread from his cock to a wider, darker ache that pulsed through him, demanding more. "Oh God," he gasped into Peter's mouth. "That's good, that's really—"

Sweat broke across his skin, prickled at his hairline and across his upper lip under his beard. Peter's kiss grew urgent for a moment, fierce, his finger thrusting deep in an echo of Neal's desire. Then he slowed again. Added more lube and another finger, making Neal gasp. 

"Take it easy, Sundance." Peter rubbed Neal's back with his free hand. "We've got plenty of time."

"Speak for yourself," muttered Neal, unsteadily. "I'm gonna die if you don't fuck me soon. Oh. _Christ_." The last word was more of a groan than anything else. It wasn't that it didn't hurt, but it was so intense that the pain ceased to mean anything, became a shimmering tangle of need and urgency, and underlying the physical sensations, the joy of being with Peter, of having El there too. Of being together. There was a shadow on the edge of that thought, but Neal pushed it aside and made himself breathe, unwinding around Peter's fingers and opening to him. "Any time now," he said hoarsely.

"Always in such a hurry." Peter kissed him again, but he was hard too. His cock left a smear across Neal's overheated belly that chilled when the air hit it. Every sensation was sharp and exquisite, and at this rate, Neal was going to come before they'd even gotten started. He closed his eyes and bit his lip, trying to ground himself, and Peter swallowed hard enough to make a gulping sound, and said, "You sure about this?"

"You want me to beg?" He meant it as a joke; it came out breathy and desperate.

"Maybe some other time." Peter pulled his fingers free, and then he was climbing over Neal, moving him forward and stretching out behind him. Neal was vaguely aware of the sound of a condom packet tearing, and Peter saying thank you. He hitched his leg up, and then Peter was _really_ behind him, pressed against him, pressing _into_ him, stretching him open with his cock, and for a moment it hurt so much Neal nearly changed his mind, nearly said no, but the pain started to fade almost instantly, and Peter's hands were on him, holding him, lightly stroking his cock, cupping his balls, and Peter's mouth was kissing behind his ear, down his neck, the most loving kisses imaginable, and there was nowhere else in the world he wanted to be.

He opened his eyes and found himself face to face with El. 

"Hey, babe," she said, softly, and pressed a kiss to his mouth, her hand reaching for his, weaving their fingers together.

"Hey," he said, and then Peter started to move inside him, in long relentless thrusts, and Neal let his eyes fall shut again, let himself unravel, losing track of his limbs, his body, everything but the feel of Peter around and in him, and the sweet, sweet undertow dragging him deeper. And even with the disorientation, it was thoroughly, undeniably physical—the literal joining of their bodies, invasive and permanent in a way that their previous sex hadn't quite managed, as if there was something about this act, this submission and openness, that spoke to his heart. 

"God, I love you," said Peter in his ear, low and guttural, and Neal shuddered and pushed forward into Peter's fist over and over, fucking it and fucking himself on Peter's cock at the same time. After that, he didn't stand a chance: moments later, his orgasm tore through him, leaving him elated and raw.

Peter's hand tightened on his hip, the other fisted in his hair, and he thrust a few more times and swore loud, quaking around Neal and coming inside him. He pulled out carefully, and they collapsed together, panting.

"Hey," said Peter in Neal's ear. "You okay?" He was holding him tight, a tremor in his body as if his pulse was still thundering, and Neal loved him so much it hurt.

He turned in his arms, burrowing against him, sweaty and flushed. Euphoria sweet in his veins, like a drug. Kissed him messily. His ass ached, but he didn't care.

Peter kissed his mouth, his forehead, then looked past him. "You okay, hon? You need anything?"

"Maybe another smoke alarm for the bedroom?" El sounded throaty and satisfied, as if she'd been part of it. "In case you start a fire with all that hotness."

Peter chuckled, and Neal flopped onto his back so he could see her, the love shining out of her.

"My turn next time," added El to both of them. "I've already got some ideas. But for now—I've got you, I'm good."

Neal's breath died in his throat. _I don't just want you, I want what you have._ That's what he'd told them. He'd watched them for years, tried to imitate their relationship, but it never worked because what they had was honest. And here, in their most intimate moment, he still wasn't honoring that. He might as well be faking his death all over again, conning them for their own good. It was unbearable. He had to trust them.

"I love you," he said, before he could think better of it. "And there's something I have to tell you."

"What's that?" said Peter.

"Sorry, I know this is the worst timing." He was destroying the mood, but it was too late to stop now. "Just—the walk-in at the showroom today. I think he might be trying to use the party as cover for an art theft. There was something off about him."

Peter got up on one elbow, looming over him. "Why didn't you say anything before?" 

"I wasn't sure. I didn't want you to—" _To leave the safety of your desk job. To be disappointed in me. To blame me._ Neal shook his head. "Mozzie's checking him out for me. It might be nothing."

El snuggled close to his side, and he automatically put his arm around her. She kissed him, and the corner of her mouth tucked in, deepening her dimples. "Well, I just hope you're paying Moz his usual rate."

Neal blinked at her.

"What did you think we talked about, ossobuco recipes and the predictive genius of George Orwell? Sometimes at work we have a suspicious situation—a groom who seems like he's only after the bride's money, or a corporation using an event as a front for shady business dealings—and Moz vets them for us."

Neal felt like an idiot. "I didn't know."

"Neither did I," said Peter, narrowing his eyes. "You're married to a federal agent, and you turn to Mozzie?"

El shrugged unrepentantly. "It's usually no big deal. I didn't want you to worry—or misuse FBI resources. If there is a problem, we refer it to the NYPD." She reached across and squeezed Peter's arm. "Don't look like that, hon. When it was serious, I came to you, remember?"

Neal let out a breath, feeling a thousand times better. Calvin Sullivan Jr. wasn't a disaster, and he wasn't his fault; it was just business as usual. "I think I just fell in love with you all over again," he told El.

"Same goes for me and you," said Peter in Neal's ear, bringing him back to the present, to their bodies and lives intertwined. Peter slung his arm across Neal's waist. "Thanks for telling us."

Neal's eyes stung. It was still a shock sometimes how well Peter understood him, and there was no way to express how much it meant, just the old fallback standing as a cipher for a world of gratitude and belonging. "I love you."

 

*

 

Halfway through trimming his beard the next morning, Neal stopped and studied himself in the mirror, trying to decide if he looked different. He'd been having sex, off and on, for over twenty years, but last night had been new. They'd crossed a line. Had the kind of sex people made tasteless jokes about, and Bible-thumping evangelists decried—and he'd loved it. 

Even now that Peter and El had let him into their family, he sometimes found himself subtly jostling for independence, determined not to fall back into the old patterns with Peter of supervising agent and CI. But last night, none of that had mattered. Peter hadn't taken him as his handler but as his lover. Any illusion of control in the act had been purely erotic.

Neal had never really given much thought to being bi. Being a good con artist meant being liked, trusted, and mirroring the mark—usually wealthy and conservative—so he'd always been careful to present as mainstream a front as possible. Now the façade was slipping: he wanted the world to know what Peter was to him, and screw what anyone thought. He wanted to do it again. 

Not all the time, though. There was still Elizabeth, her bewitching smile and sexy body; there were still hands and mouths, and everything they'd been doing up until now. There was still the prospect of taking Peter the same way—seeing if he liked it too, if it moved him the way it had affected Neal. If he were willing to cross that line and cede control to Neal.

The thought made his face heat and his breath come faster. But it was morning, and Peter, El and Mikey were waiting for him downstairs. Further experimentation would have to wait.

 

*

 

El was making scrambled eggs while Peter fed Mikey. Neal kissed the nape of her neck and went to put some bread in the toaster. He poured two mugs of coffee and a cup of tea for El, then offered to take over from Peter.

"Nah, we're nearly done here." Peter looked up, his smile warm and private, and Neal gripped his shoulder and bent to kiss him. Peter had answered the call when Mikey started crying at five-thirty that morning, so they hadn't had a proper chance to wake up together.

And now just kissing in the middle of the kitchen was making Neal exquisitely aware of Peter's body. He wanted to kiss down his throat, bite his nipple, maybe suck a hickey on his chest—

High-pitched babbling interrupted his fantasy, and he stood, reorienting himself in the everyday. Peter's eyes were dark, his lips kiss-swollen, his smile tinged with rueful humor. "Hey, you."

"Yeah." Neal winked, and then the toast popped and his cellphone rang, and he retreated to deal with both. The call was from Mozzie. "Hey, Moz, whatcha got?"

"We need to meet."

"Tell him to meet us at the showroom at nine," said El.

"Why not here?" asked Peter, over his shoulder, clearly wanting to be present at the debrief.

El shrugged. "It's out of his way. He charges extra for leaving Manhattan."

Neal snorted and relayed the rendezvous to Moz, who hung up. Neal buttered the toast, just as El was serving the eggs and—in a rare moment of good timing—Mikey finished eating. Mikey was showing signs of wanting to get down and go exploring, but with luck, his rattle and Mozart would keep him happy for another five or ten minutes. The three adults sat down to breakfast together.

Peter shoveled a large forkful of fluffy golden eggs into his mouth. When he'd swallowed, he said to Neal, "I have to say, now I know your client list is made up of rogues and scoundrels, it's a weight off my mind to know you're around to be El's backup."

Neal grinned at El. "You've held your own so far."

"Oh, it's not El I'm worried about," said Peter. "It's the boy. Between the two of you, I know you'll keep him safe."

"Count on it," said Neal, playing along, though it was no secret that Peter was protective of El too. 

El smiled and added, "And if Moz has anything exciting to tell us, I promise we'll keep you in the loop, hon."

"Exciting," repeated Neal, mocking her gently. He was still ambivalent about his past life in crime and law enforcement overlapping with his new career. He was supposed to be making a fresh start. But so long as it didn't endanger anyone he cared about, the prospect of catching Sullivan in the act—and maybe getting to work with Peter again—was secretly energizing. One last case. 

 

*

 

The showroom was ringing with cheerful conversation when Neal, El and Mikey arrived, and Neal stopped in his tracks when he saw the source: Yvonne, Jeannie and Moz were clustered on the client couches, drinking tea and eating biscotti. Moz seemed to be regaling the others with gossipy speculation about someone whose name Neal didn't recognize. They all looked like old friends.

"Hi, Moz," said El, side-stepping Neal, who was still motionless, and going to sit next to Jeannie. El was wearing Mikey in the carrier, and she gave him a biscotto to suck on and deftly caught it when he tried to throw it on the floor. "No, sweetie, it's for eating. See?" She nibbled it herself and gave it back to him. "Mm, delicious."

"Hi, El. Victor." Moz sent Neal a secretive look and went back to charming the others. "I'm here for purely social reasons. And the delicious tea, of course."

Yvonne looked from Moz to Neal and back again. "You know each other?"

"We're old friends," said Neal cautiously. He'd never be disloyal enough to admit it out loud, but Moz was something of a social liability, and with Yvonne and Jeannie, Neal didn't have a lot of credit to spare.

But Moz gave a casual wave of his hand and said, "I've known Victor for years. He's all right," and suddenly Yvonne was looking at him differently. Different in a good way. Apparently in the world of BPE, having Mozzie's seal of approval counted for a lot.

Neal put down the baby bag, took the last remaining seat—the armchair—and helped himself to a biscotto, trying to get his bearings. As a con, and later working for the FBI and going undercover in different roles, he'd always known how to get what he needed, but in the deceptively ordinary environment of BPE, he kept finding himself on the back foot, his calculations incomplete and consequently misleading. Even through the persistent veil of sleep deprivation, his interest quickened at the challenge of mastering this new life.

El winked at him and unclipped the baby carrier so Mikey could sit more freely on her lap. He turned and pressed his face into her breasts. "You okay, babycakes? You shouldn't be hungry; you just had breakfast. You're good, aren't you?" She gave him Mozart and turned to Mozzie. "Enough chitchat. Tell us what you found out about Calvin Sullivan."

"Who? I have no idea what you're talking about." Mozzie's eyes widened in an exaggerated display of innocence.

"It's okay, Moz, I told her. You may speak freely," said Neal. To Yvonne and Jeannie, he added, "Sullivan was acting suspiciously yesterday, so I asked Moz to look into him."

"Fine." Mozzie pulled a dossier out of his messenger bag and opened it on his lap. "Calvin Sullivan Jr., sophomore at Yale. My sources tell me he was invited to join a shadowy secret society with powerful ties."

"The Skull and Bones?" said Jeannie.

"Similar but different," said Mozzie. "From what I can gather, members are required to steal a valuable painting as part of their initiation."

"Who chooses the target artwork?" asked Neal.

"Unclear," said Mozzie. "The society's invitation might give us a clue."

"Which is in his wallet," said Neal. "I'll see if I can get a closer look."

Yvonne and Jeannie eyed him as if he'd offered to steal Sullivan's car, but El beamed. "That would be great. If you can lift his wallet and figure out what he's going after, we can make a plan from there. No, sweetie, not the tray. Here, have some more biscotti. You can get down in a minute."

"The bad news is that this particular secret society is well-connected and potentially dangerous," said Mozzie. 

"Well, obviously, if it's making people break the law," said Yvonne, intercepting Mikey's grasping hands before he could pull the tea tray to the floor. "It couldn't demand initiates do something like that unless it has the clout to stop them informing the authorities. I mean, the initiates aren't members yet—they have no reason to be loyal."

"Except fear and ambition. Exactly," said Mozzie, nodding. He turned to El. "The good news is that Sullivan's grandmother, Dennie, is on the board of the Ethel Crayford Charity Foundation with our friend and confidante, Mrs. June Ellington."

Neal couldn't see why that was good news, but El smiled. "That does give us options." She caught Neal's puzzled look and explained, "If we're throwing a party, it has to be a great party. We don't do flops. And from what you've said, our friend Calvin isn't providing much guidance on what kinds of social events his grandmother enjoys."

"No, that wasn't exactly his main area of concern," said Neal. "So, what do we do?"

El and Yvonne both started speaking, but they were cut off by the bell over the door. 

"That's him," said Neal. Mozzie was already sliding the dossier back into his messenger bag, and Jeannie quickly gathered their cups onto the tea tray.

Yvonne gave El her tablet. "I ran up some budget options." 

"Fantastic. Okay." El touched Neal's arm. "You ready? Moz, can you take Mikey for a few minutes?"

"With pleasure," said Mozzie, reaching for him. "He and I have much to discuss, don't we, young padawan?" 

Everyone except Neal and El went to the office area at the back of the showroom, behind the dividers. Neal put on a smile and went to greet Sullivan—and pick his pocket. "Hi, good morning, Mr. Sullivan," he said, holding out his hand. 

Calvin took it instinctively, gave it an unconvincing shake, and said, "I brought my grandmother's address book. You can use it to figure out who to invite."

"Of course." Neal clapped him on the shoulder and turned him to meet El, using the motion as a cover for snagging his wallet from his breast pocket. Then he hung back and held the wallet out of sight. "May I introduce Elizabeth Burke, the proprietor of Burke Premiere Events? She wants to go over a few details with you."

El beamed and laid it on thick. "Such a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Sullivan," she said, shaking his hand and guiding him to the couches. "You're wanting to throw a surprise party for your grandmother, is that right? Wonderful, that's so generous of you. I'm sure she'll be thrilled. Now, we've made a preliminary booking at the Vogel Institute, as you requested. I just have a few questions about your grandmother's preferences."

"Oh, I'll leave that up to you," said Sullivan. "I only came to bring you her address book for the guest list."

"Right, of course," said El. "And I'm sure you appreciate the difficulty of designing a surprise party for someone we know nothing about. Maybe you can give us just a little guidance. Where did she take her last overseas vacation?"

She was buying Neal time. Careful to stay out of Sullivan's line of sight, he opened the wallet and unfolded the Merovingian Society's invitation. He photographed both sides with his phone and quickly rifled through the rest of the wallet in case there was anything else of interest. There wasn't. And tempting as it was to record his credit card details, Neal wasn't that guy anymore. He put everything back where he'd found it and went to sit next to Sullivan, on the other side from El, unobtrusively waiting for a chance to return the wallet before Sullivan noticed its absence, and watching El work.

Sullivan was obviously caught off-guard by her determined friendliness, cornered into disclosing that his parents were on an Arctic cruise, and Dennie preferred the south of France and Spain. By comparison, Neal's questions yesterday had bordered on adversarial, triggered by Sullivan's condescension and shiftiness, but El was building rapport, forcing Sullivan into a genuine two-way conversation while still testing him. She was brilliant.

"And of course, we'll have some speeches when we bring the cake out," she said, cheerfully. "Now, we have two quotes for you. The Blue Room can hold a maximum of a hundred and twenty, but that would be uncomfortably crowded, and given the age group, we want to make sure there's plenty of seating, don't we? So maybe a headcount of fifty or seventy-five? I had my associate, Yvonne, work up some estimates—what do you think?" She showed him the figures on the tablet.

"Fine," said Sullivan, barely glancing at the screen. "Seventy-five. My father will cover the cost." He stood up. "I have to get going. Matters to attend to. You have my phone number—text me if there's anything else." 

"Of course," said Neal, but Sullivan was already walking away. And Neal was still holding his wallet. He discreetly held it so El would see and was about to fall back on _You dropped this,_ when El called after Sullivan.

"Oh, wait. One more thing." She and Neal both went after Sullivan, where he was standing by the door. "I'm so sorry, we were eating biscotti when you arrived, and I think you have some crumbs on your—" She gestured to Neal, who dutifully dusted imaginary biscotti crumbs from Sullivan's Ralph Lauren jacket, and slipped the wallet back into place as he did so.

"I promise, we're not usually such poor housekeepers," El told Sullivan, ignoring his sneer. "Okay, great. Well, we'll be in touch. It was so great meeting you."

The bell rang as he left, and Neal pulled El close and kissed her. "You are incredible," he said. "In a different life, I would totally woo you away from Peter and take you to Europe, and we'd scam millions off rich expats and English billionaires on the Riviera."

She leaned into him and batted her eyelashes. "You'd leave Peter all alone?"

"He'd still have Satchmo," Neal assured her. "And we'd send him postcards and bottles of expensive wine."

"Which he wouldn't appreciate." She grinned and led him back to the office area where Jeannie and Moz were fussing over Mikey, and Yvonne had a spreadsheet open on her computer. 

"Well?" said Jeannie.

"Victor wasn't kidding about Calvin Sullivan," said El, taking the other desk chair. "His idea of a guest list is bringing us an address book. Does he think his grandmother wants her dentist and her auto mechanic at the party? Sheesh!"

Neal perched on the edge of her desk. "I don't think he cares, one way or the other, so long as he gets his painting."

"Speaking of which, do we know what he's after?" said Moz.

Neal brought up the photos on his phone. "An Alberto Magnelli in the foyer next to the Blue Room. The instructions were coded, but he's already cracked it." Sullivan had penciled the name and position of the artwork under the code.

Mozzie looked disappointed. "Let me see."

Neal tossed him the phone and went to stop Mikey from crawling toward the restroom. "Is this your way of telling us you need changing? You smell okay. I think you're fine. Come on, there's lots of fun electrical cables and other deadly hazards in this direction—you'll love it."

"Oh, seriously?" said Mozzie, in such a tone of disgust that everyone looked at him.

"What is it?" asked El.

"Sullivan decoded the symbols wrong. This _obviously_ orientates from the south-east corner of the foyer, not the north-west!" Moz gestured dramatically. "He's going after the wrong painting."

"I guess cryptography isn't his strong suit," said Neal. "It doesn't matter—he's going after the Magnelli."

"But—" Mozzie inhaled impatiently, then let out a long sigh. "I suppose ultimately it's better to thwart a doomed enterprise than a masterpiece of criminal planning. The latter would be true vandalism."

Neal picked up Mikey and bounced him, because it was easier than trying to corral him when he was in an adventurous mood. Mikey laughed and tried to pull his beard, and Neal blew a raspberry on his cheek, but he was thinking about the case. There were a dozen ways to take Sullivan down, but it was El's company, and he was here to learn. "So, how does BPE handle this kind of thing?"

"Well, we have to warn the Vogel Institute and let them know we're taking every precaution to safeguard their exhibit," said Yvonne. "Otherwise they'll never let us book another event there again."

"Right," said El. "And as far as Sullivan goes, we either tip off the NYPD or tell Peter, but either way, if it's a sting, they'll have to let the theft happen before they can arrest him, and that will (a) piss off the Vogel Institute, and (b) potentially ruin Dennie Sullivan's birthday party." She tucked her hair behind her ear thoughtfully. "I think I'll give this one to Peter."

"He could reprise his role as bartender," said Neal. "How's his mixology these days?"

"I'm sure he can get up to speed by Friday," said El, with a grin. "Yay, I was sorry to have missed that last time. Moz, any chance you'd be available to babysit on Friday?"

"I'm at your service," said Mozzie, gallantly. "We can watch _Fahrenheit 911_."

"Yeah, we'll discuss that later," said El. "So—how do we keep the Vogel Institute happy?"

Neal had a simple answer to that, but he was hesitant to suggest it, especially since it was barely nine-thirty and he'd already picked a client's pocket. But, surprisingly, Yvonne was thinking along the same lines. 

"We get the Institute to replace the Magnelli painting with a copy," she said. "Then their artwork isn't on the line."

El clapped her hands. "Of course! And luckily we have just the person to do that. Victor, would you make us a replacement Magnelli?" 

She made the request without missing a beat. Neal opened his mouth to at least make it clear this would be an exception to an otherwise reformed-and-reputable rule, but before he could, Moz spoke up.

"Oh please, it's Cubism. He could whip one up in a couple of hours, including the frame."

After that, there was no point prevaricating. "Double that if you want exact color-matching," said Neal. Yvonne was regarding him as if this were a test, and he had no idea if he was passing or failing, but he wasn't going to refuse El, even if it meant losing ground in his quest to be respectable. He added lightly, "Double it again if Mikey's in the room where I'm working, isn't that right, Monster? Because I'd have to keep interrupting my work to stop you eating the bright, candy-colored paint. You don't want to do that, by the way—it tastes nasty."

El grinned. "I'll take Mikey. So, all right, that just leaves making sure the arrest doesn't disrupt the party. I think that can be Peter's problem. Okay! Jeannie, you go through Dennie Sullivan's address book and see if you can sketch out some kind of guest list, or at least eliminate the obvious non-candidates and email me the results. We'll need to get invitations out today. Yvonne, keep working on the boutique launch and the Farnsworth wedding. Do you need any help with those?"

"Not urgently. I have to follow up with some suppliers. The decorations for the boutique still haven't arrived."

"Jeannie can lend a hand once she's done with the guest list," said El. "Meanwhile, Neal and I will talk to the Vogel Institute—that's probably a conversation we should have in person—and stop by June's to confer with her about Dennie's preferences. Everyone good? Wonderful!"

"Sheri Maddison's coming in at two about her anniversary party," said Yvonne, checking the wallplanner. "And are we taking the Oswald Group's gala? Because if so, I need to call William back and let him know ASAP."

"I'll be back by two, and we'll go over the schedule after Sheri's gone and see how we're placed for the gala." El stood up and rubbed Yvonne's shoulder. "It'll be fine, you'll see. We have more capacity now. Mozzie, thanks so much for your help. Invoice me at the usual rate, okay? Right, let's go."

"You hear that, Dr. Livingstone? We're going on an expedition," Neal told Mikey. "Time to gather our supplies."

 

*

 

El called the Vogel Institute from the cab and made an appointment to meet with the chief curator and the head of security in an hour. "We need to get Peter on board first," she said, dropping her phone into her purse. 

"We did promise to keep him in the loop," said Neal. "Anyway, there's an art supplies store around the corner from the Bureau, and I need to pick up a few things."

"Well, I need a drink, and Mikey needs changing," said El. "I vote we call Peter to meet us in the coffee shop downstairs."

"The herbal tea is on me," said Neal as their cab pulled up at the curb. He tipped the driver extra for his careful driving and thought again about buying a car. It made sense: El might be happy to ride with Mikey on the subway or in cabs, but when there were three of them making their way around Manhattan to inspect venues and visit clients, surely a private car with a baby seat installed would be safer and more practical.

Or maybe standing in Federal Plaza was making him nostalgic for the old days. A couple of shiny black vehicles with FBI passes on the dash were parked at the curb, evoking memories of Peter chauffeuring him to crime scenes and witness interviews, not to mention the endless stakeouts full of companionable silences and good-natured verbal sparring that had sometimes bordered on flirting, even if Peter had never acknowledged it.

Neal hadn't been back to the FBI Building in over a year, and it was a strange sensation to step into the foyer as Victor Moreau, like visiting a past life. He was torn between the impulse to head up to the twenty-first floor and visit his old desk—to see Peter leaning on the mezzanine railing, looking over his domain; to make small talk at the coffee machine and catch up with whatever familiar faces remained—and an irrational unease that he might be recognized. It wouldn't matter if he was. He'd decided to stay as Victor to build on the progress he'd made in Paris, the man he'd become after escaping the anklet for the last time, but he wasn't trying to erase Neal Caffrey completely, and it was foolish to think he could live in the city without ever being recognized. If anyone hailed him, he'd explain his presence matter-of-factly, and El would back him up.

Even so, it felt dangerous. When the elevator door slid open on the other side of the gray marble foyer, he half-expected Kramer or Agent Collins, gun in hand, to step out and spot him. Either of them could come up with a bogus reason to arrest him without breaking a sweat. 

It was then that Neal realized part of his motive in coming here was getting official FBI clearance for their plan before he started forging a painting worth four hundred grand. God, he really was reformed. All it had taken was getting his heart's desire.

 

*

 

He and El were on a couch in the back corner of the café, where El could breastfeed without too many distractions for Mikey, when Peter showed up. "Hey, what's going on?"

"Hey, hon," said El.

"I got you a latte." Neal took a moment to appreciate Peter's physicality from this angle: his long body folding onto the couch opposite and reclining slightly, his hand reaching for the coffee cup while his other arm rested, crooked, on the seat back. The casual air of authority and willingness to take up space. Neal felt a possessive jolt, and their gazes locked, his awareness mirrored in Peter's eyes.

Mikey squealed, "Dada," and waved his hands at Peter, breaking the spell, and El said, "Hush, babycakes, inside voices. Have you had enough? Are you sure? Okay, then." She straightened her clothing, burped him and gave him a plastic rattle to suck. "No, sorry, babe, you can't go to Dad. You'd mess up his suit."

"I'll make it up to you later," said Peter, ostensibly to Mikey, though he gave Neal a small smile too. "So, I take it Mozzie found something on your client."

"Calvin Sullivan Jr.," said El.

"He's an amateur," said Neal. "A rich college kid who plans to steal a painting from the Vogel Institute. He's hiring us to throw his grandmother a surprise birthday party as a cover."

Peter sipped his latte. "If that's all it is, you could have taken it to the NYPD."

"El wanted to see you play bartender," said Neal, elbowing her. "Remember Cape Verde? Apparently she has some kind of fantasy—and after last night, it is her turn to call the shots."

"Pun intended?" Peter's lips curved.

"Hey, where do you think you're going?" El restrained Mikey's attempt to squirm onto the floor and wrinkled her nose at Peter. "The NYPD would make a noise and bust up the party. I'm counting on you, my brilliant husband, to contain the situation so that Dennie Sullivan and her friends can still have a magical evening."

"While I arrest her grandson," said Peter, drily. "The ideal birthday present. So you want me to safeguard the painting, catch the thief and somehow do this without ruining your party."

"Exactly." El beamed. 

Peter narrowed his eyes, then rubbed a hand across his face, possibly to hide the fact he was swearing. "Oh, now I get it—you want me to let him off. El, you know I can't do that."

"He won't have stolen anything of value. Victor's going to make a forgery—"

"A copy," said Neal.

"—a copy, so the Vogel Institute can secure the original, at the FBI's request. And like we said, Sullivan's an amateur. A college kid. Can't you give him a scare and let him go with a warning?" El looked hopeful. 

Neal hadn't really considered the situation from Dennie Sullivan's point of view, but now El was making that a priority, he had a better answer, and this time he didn't bite his tongue, though he personally had no interest in Sullivan going free. "The only reason he's planning to steal the painting is because it's his ticket into his college secret society. If you flip him, and let him take the forgery to the society, he might lead you to other stolen artworks—maybe a whole cache. And if he gives you any attitude, you can tell him he decoded the instructions wrong and he's taken the wrong painting."

Peter snorted. "Is that true?" 

"Mozzie was very scathing," said Neal. "Also, it's likely the society will send a mole to verify and document the theft, so you'll need someone to run interference, if you want to take them unawares. We can help with that."

"It sounds like you're trying to set me up with a new CI." Peter stopped scowling long enough to send him a quizzical look.

"Not like that," said Neal. "This is a one-time thing, a whistleblower. And just think—we don't know how long the secret society's been running this scam. You could close dozens of unsolved cases. All those lost masterpieces…"

"You know it's no fun unless they're hidden on a German U-boat," said Peter, starting to get on board.

"You never know your luck." Neal grinned, remembering the two of them on the deck of the U-boat, desperately working to defuse the booby-trap with the Enigma machine. It seemed long ago, like something out of an adventure movie. Vincent Adler playing the moustache-twirling villain. Which reminded him— "Just make sure you have plenty of media coverage when you uncover the stash. Then it can't come back on you."

"I'm the ASAC," said Peter. "I can handle myself. Anyway, I think I might let Jones have this one. I don't need any more high-profile wins. I'm already under pressure to take a promotion in DC as it is."

"The Bureau's golden boy," said El. "But you'll still come to the party, right?"

"It sounds like I don't have a whole lot of choice," said Peter. "Consider this my RSVP."

 

*

 

The easel was by the French doors where he'd left it, and the palette knife fit his hand like an old friend. He blended the colors on a virgin palette bought for the occasion and breathed in the smell of oil paints. 

Moz wandered in with a glass of wine to complete the illusion of having travelled back in time. "So, Stella, have you got your groove back?"

"Just about to get started." Neal had visited Magnelli's _Explosion lyrique No. 14_ at the Vogel Institute earlier and committed the subtleties of form and hue to memory and his phone. Reproducing them would be a snap. "Is June giving El any useful intel?"

"Naturally. She's June." Moz took a seat at the table, within Neal's peripheral vision. His casual inclusion of himself in the sting made Neal smile.

"So, how long have you been running background checks for BPE?" he asked, idly curious. The paint was ready. He selected a brush, stood before the canvas and got started, in long sweeping strokes. He'd stripped down to his undershirt, and the light breeze coming through the open doors cooled his shoulders. 

"A gentleman never tells." Mozzie was observing him critically. "You're being too sparing with the paint. Make it thicker at the corner."

"I know what I'm doing. And I don't think the chivalric code extends to consulting work." 

"Mine does."

Neal painted in silence for a while, going over the corner as Mozzie had suggested. Knowing he deserved the snub, after what he'd done, but still hurt by his friend's reticence.

"After the case with her neighbors," said Mozzie, finally, breaking the stalemate. "That's when it started. She had a client with some inconsistencies in his story, and she got suspicious, but she didn't want to worry the Suit, so she came to me."

"After Keller kidnapped her." Neal forced his brushstrokes to remain smooth and steady, caught between relief that Moz had unbent enough to talk to him and the bitter memory of that time. Neal had unwittingly brought Keller into Peter and El's lives, and he had no regrets about choreographing his exit, but it was still an uncomfortable subject. He glanced at Mozzie. "Hey, remember that time in Catalonia when you got drunk and wanted to steal the Gaudi pulpits from the Church of Santa Maria?"

"We could have done it, man. I had a foolproof plan." Mozzie sighed and drank. "Good times."

Neal tried to counter his nostalgia. "You know, if I hadn't gotten arrested, we wouldn't have had the chance to solve Mosconi's Codex and find the twin of the Hope Diamond."

"Which we didn't get to keep." Mozzie pouted.

"We'd never have met June or El or Diana and Theo." And perhaps Kate would still be alive, but Neal doubted it; FBI or no FBI, Adler would have found a way to come after Neal to get what he wanted. He'd used Fowler as a weapon, but the world was full of guys with guns willing to be used.

Mozzie refilled his glass and raised it. "To the glass half full." He sounded almost reconciled to Neal's argument. Certainly less mournful. "Remember when we liberated that suit of armor from the Bavarian castle?"

"I painted a fake-and-bake replacement, propped it in the corner. No one ever went in that room anyway," said Neal, smirking at the memory. He cleaned his brush and switched to burnt sienna, outlining the long line of the abstracted doorway in an exact replica of the original, some part of his brain instinctively knowing how to produce the right effect, just like always. "You know, when I turned over a new leaf, I didn't expect it to look so much like the old leaf."

"Are you okay with that?" asked El, from the doorway. She was wearing a top hat, looking extremely stylish, even with Mikey in her arms, and she grinned at Neal's reaction. "Having fun? I've been raiding June's closet while we talked."

"Evidently." Neal had paint on his fingers and a job to do, or he would have handed Mikey off to Moz and shut them both outside in favor of some quality time with El. He settled for a wink and a grin. "I hope you're planning to wear that again later this evening."

"Too much information. Seriously. This is a family show." Mozzie picked up his wineglass and retreated onto the patio.

El snickered. "Such delicate sensibilities." She hefted Mikey higher and craned her head to avoid him grabbing at the hat. "No, this one isn't for explorers. You need a safari hat or one of those fuzzy ones with earflaps. Aw, big yawn. Are you sleepy?" She sat on the couch and laid him on her lap, then looked across at Neal. "Bet you didn't think event management would include painting forgeries."

"I was expecting more champagne and less turpentine." Neal painted a smooth curve in red and finessed it with his thumbnail. "I don't think Yvonne's thrilled I've been exercising my criminal talents."

"You're working with us, not against us—that's what matters." El took off the hat and put it on the coffee table, safely out of Mikey's reach. She looked serious. "I know why you made the deal with Yvonne, but I really wanted you as a partner in the business, not a flunky."

"I still have a lot to learn," said Neal. "There's no shame in working my way up." It sounded like he was trying to convince both of them. He put down his brush and sat opposite her. "Why's it so important to you?"

"I guess I wanted you to have some autonomy?" El smoothed Mikey's t-shirt, distractedly. "What we do at BPE, it's not usually glamorous and exciting. Mostly we just work behind the scenes to throw parties and try to keep everyone happy, including stressed-out brides and grooms and their families."

"I know. I asked for this, remember?" Neal studied her, trying to figure out why she was so troubled.

She smiled lopsidedly. "Only three weeks ago, for all we knew, you were dead. Sometimes it's still hard to believe you're real. Especially when you're sitting there looking so—"

Neal glanced down at his paint-stained hands, the smear of cobalt blue on his undershirt. "Felonious?"

"I was going to say 'incredibly hot.'" She grinned, but the smile twisted and became complicated. "You know when we first got together, you told Peter you took a lot of risks working for the FBI because you didn't want to go back to prison? You made yourself be someone who enjoyed playing with fire."

Neal nodded.

"Well, you're not on parole anymore, babe. You don't have to fit yourself into a convenient mold for me or Yvonne or anyone. If you leave BPE, it'll be your choice—no one's kicking you out on my watch—and if you do decide to go, that's okay, just so long as you don't—" She swallowed and looked away, blinking hard.

"Look, I know it looks bad," said Neal quickly. "Less than a week, and I'm already picking pockets, painting forgeries and pulling Peter into the field. But I'm not going to fall off the wagon, I swear."

"I know." El's eyes were big and dark, her voice low. "That's not—I don't even care about that, I just—I need you not to leave."

Neal almost laughed in surprise, but she looked serious and worried. He wished he could hold her. If it weren't for the paint, and Mikey dozing on her lap, he would have. Instead, he reached out with his voice. "Sweetheart, don't you know? You're here, and Mikey and Peter. There's nowhere else for me to go."

"What about Paris?"

"Maybe for a family vacation." He stopped holding back and moved to kneel at her feet, took her hand. "If I can't win Yvonne over, I'll be a stay-at-home dad until I find something else."

She smiled wryly. "Dinner on the table by seven."

"Naked on the bed by nine," he said, relieved to see her grin. "Look, honestly, I don't know if event planning is for me yet, but I'm not leaving you, ever. And in the meantime, it's a job. I get to work with you and learn the ropes. It doesn't have to be a rollercoaster of excitement all the time. I'm actually pretty tired from Mikey and everything—I could use some routine."

El squeezed his hand. "Okay."

"Whatever it takes," he reminded her. The promise they'd made when they first gotten together.

"I know, I was being stupid." She looked better now, her eyes bright again. "But just so you know, if you ever do disappear again, this time you'll have two Burkes tracking you down and dragging your ass home—even if it means leaving Mikey with Moz while we chase you."

"Noted." Neal kissed her palm. He wished there were a way to prove his faithfulness so she could take him for granted, but further assurances wouldn't help. It was a matter of time and patience. He sighed. "Right now, I should finish this painting so I can clean up and kiss you properly."

"Yes, please." She stroked his hair back from his forehead. "And this afternoon, Mr. Whatever It Takes, you have the fun task of calling Dennie Sullivan's friends and convincing them to attend a silk-and-roses themed surprise party in three days' time."

"With a song in my heart," said Neal. 

 

*

 

They were all too tired that night to do anything but fall into bed and sleep, which turned out to be a good call anyway, since Mikey woke every couple of hours and was fussy and unhappy. The next night, once Mikey was down, the dishes were done and Satchmo had been walked, Neal gave Peter a cocktail refresher course. 

"It's a silk and rose party, so we're offering themed cocktails," he said. "Have you ever made a Silk Stocking? Three parts tequila, one part Chambord, one part— What?"

Peter had dropped the measuring cup on the floor. "Raincheck on the drinks," he said, retrieving it from under the high chair. His eyes on the doorway.

Neal turned. El was leaning artfully against the doorjamb, smoky-eyed and wearing nothing but five-inch heels, a sheer lace negligee that barely reached her thighs, and the top hat. The heels and hat were black, the wine-colored negligee perfectly echoed her lipstick, and her hair tumbled around her shoulders in glorious disarray. Neal took an involuntary step forward. "Wow."

"Yeah," agreed Peter hoarsely, putting the cup back on the counter. He cleared his throat. "That's—You look amazing, hon. What's the occasion?"

"I thought we could celebrate my new IUD." El set the baby monitor on the sideboard, tipped her hat forward and gave them a sultry smirk. "And before you ask, yes, I do have a plan. All open for negotiation, of course, but something I'd really like to try."

"Name it," said Peter. 

Neal nodded. "Anything."

Her cheeks colored as she looked at him. "What I want is you taking me from behind, standing up, while you go down on me, hon. Which is why I thought—down here rather than the bedroom. I might need something to lean on."

"And we wouldn't want to wake the boy." Peter moved forward and kissed her, tipping her chin up and resting his hand at her waist, which pulled the lace taut over her breast. His thumb stroked an arc over her ribs, and his fingers made divots. "Jesus, El."

"I second your plan," said Neal, drawn forward by the picture they made together, the details and the whole. For the longest time, he'd thought of El as wholesome and demure, the strong steadfast woman at Peter's shoulder, and every day brought new proof of how limited his view of her had been. She was a revelation, bold and adventurous, sexy and playful. The more he knew her, the more he adored her. 

"It's unanimous," said Peter, sparing Neal a luscious kiss and then standing aside so Neal could trace the curve of her breast through the fabric, rub her nipple, watching her eyes go heavy and dark, her chest rise with her quickened breath. He let his hand graze her side past the short hem of her negligee and down to the pure warm skin of her leg, scraped his thumbnail lightly along the line of her garment to her inner thigh. Her pubic hair tickled the back of his hand. She was already wet.

She gasped, and he leaned in and kissed her, ducking his head to avoid the brim of her hat. The high heels made her taller than usual, and she pressed against him, wrapped her arm around his neck and kissed him back, moaning into his mouth. He stroked up under her negligee to her hip and pushed his leg between hers, rocking against her, letting her ride him. There was no ceding control here—he would have in a heartbeat and counted himself lucky, but this was a negotiation of equals, both of them going after what they wanted. Peter swore softly, gripping Neal's shoulder, crowding behind him.

El broke the kiss with a frustrated sound and tossed the hat behind her into the living room. "Better without," she said, raking her fingers through her hair.

"It was sexy, though. You made a fantastic entrance." Neal bit her neck, kissed down to the smooth slope of her shoulder. He could smell the cinnamon of her shampoo, the warmth of her body.

She shivered and reached with both hands to unfasten his jeans and grasp his cock, stroking him. "I'm ready," she said. "I want you. Come on."

"Where do you want to do this?" He stepped back and stripped his t-shirt over his head, kicked off his shoes, shucked his jeans and underwear. Peter was already down to his boxers and practically had his tongue hanging out. 

"I was thinking the breakfast island," said El. "It's high enough that Peter can kneel under the ledge, and it'll give me something to hang onto." She moved a couple of barstools aside and braced herself against the edge of the counter to demonstrate, then looked over her shoulder in a clear invitation.

Neal and Peter moved as one, Peter folding himself into the space in front of her, running his hands up her thighs and nuzzling her, and Neal coming up behind her, his blood pumping with desire and anticipation. He caressed her buttocks for a moment, pulling the lace out of the way, and she widened her stance and tilted her pelvis so he could press against her, wrap his arms around her, his cock between her thighs. It was El who guided him home, into her wet heat, the first time there'd been no barrier between them. He thrust smooth and steady, careful not to disrupt Peter's efforts, suddenly aware that El's heels weren't just for show—the extra inches in height made the whole operation possible. She really had planned this.

Neal kept one hand on her hip for balance and used the other to curve around her breast, holding her to him, moving with her, feeling her quiver from being fucked and eaten at the same time. She had a white-knuckle grip on the counter and was swearing, long and low and hoarse, her hips hitching in tiny desperate motions. Her body tightened exquisitely around his cock, and for a moment he thought he could feel Peter's tongue through her, the arousal coursing like a fire between the three of them.

"Oh, sweet _fucking_ —I can't, I can't, it's too much, too good—" She sounded delirious and, despite her words, gave no sign of wanting to stop.

Neal pulled her hair to one side and kissed the back of her neck. "Hang in there, sweetheart."

Peter made a muffled noise, and El jumped and almost screamed. She grabbed his head and pulled him back, nearly throwing them all off balance, but Neal managed to keep them upright, and whatever Peter was doing down there, it was definitely working, because then everything came together in a multi-sensory kaleidoscope of heat and pleasure and straining muscles. Neal drove in and in, and El cried out, briefly trying to muffle it with her hand but then grabbing for the counter again. Her knees buckled as she came.

Neal held her, loosening his control and pulsing inside her, suffused with love and a strong sense of belonging.

"So good," said El indistinctly, sagging against him. And then Peter crawled out from under the ledge, wiped his chin and boosted El onto the edge of the counter, kissed her deeply, and at her urging, shoved his boxers down and pushed into her, so Neal got to witness them together, like a cherry on top of a particularly hedonistic sundae. He leaned against the counter, still breathing hard, and drank in the sight of the two of them: El's arms twined around Peter's neck, her legs around his waist and the strap of her negligee falling off one shoulder; Peter's eyes screwed shut, his forehead furrowed and chest flushed. For a moment, it felt voyeuristic, as if he were watching through a peephole or from a great distance, as if he had no right. His heart contracted painfully. He was on the outside again. But no, no, it wasn't like that: they wanted him. He belonged. And then El met his gaze and held it as she came again, and any last trace of doubt vanished. 

 

*

 

June raised her Jasper Rose cocktail in a toast. "Congratulations, darling. It's quite a party." 

"We couldn't have done it without you." Neal surveyed the room. At the bar, Peter was making cocktails as fast as he could measure, and the birthday girl flirted outrageously with a man in a waistcoat patterned with garish yellow roses. Even Calvin was making nice with an elderly couple near the door. 

Of the sixty-two guests they'd drummed up, most had put an impressive amount of effort into the party theme—Neal had no idea how El and June had arranged for Dennie to be wearing a floral silk dress without giving the game away—and even the wait staff had white roses in their buttonholes. Some guests sat around tables bearing lamps with rose-patterned lampshades, and others stood in groups, talking and laughing. It was festive and intimate.

"Everyone's having a good time," said Neal, pleased with their efforts.

"Dennie says there are friends here she hasn't seen in years. She's thrilled," said June. "Have you made the spy yet?"

The representative of the Merovingians sent to witness Sullivan's crime. Neal had spent most of the evening taking photos for a memory booklet, which they planned to present to Dennie at the end of the evening, and playing photographer had served as an excellent way to meet the guests and assess who didn't belong—and to schmooze for future gigs. 

"I know who it is," said Neal. There was only one guest who hadn't dressed for the theme, a cool blonde under thirty who was pretending to mingle while actually assessing the Blue Room's art collection and keeping tabs on Calvin. Neal discreetly indicated her, and June nodded.

"That was my thought too." June sipped her cocktail and looked about to say more, but a phone vibrated in Neal's pocket, and he excused himself and stepped away to take the call. He was minding El's phone while she checked on the cake and MCed the festivities, and it might be Moz with a babysitting emergency.

It was Yvonne. Neal answered, "Hi, this is Victor."

"Oh, hey. How's it going there? We've just finished up at the boutique. Do you need us to come over and help out?" She sounded wiped.

"No, you and Jeannie go on home. We've got this under control," said Neal, as the lights dimmed, and El, wearing her top hat with a rose in the band, wheeled out the cake. Calvin grabbed a gym bag from behind the coat rack and slid toward the exit. "Gotta go," said Neal.

He intercepted Peter, who was making for the staff entrance and who said, loud enough for those nearby to hear, "I'm just going for more lemons," and then, quieter, "Junior's making his move. Stall the mole."

"On it." Neal touched his arm, and even though he knew Jones was waiting in the outer foyer as Peter's backup, couldn't help adding, "Be careful."

Peter smiled, his eyes bright with the chase, and politely evaded a couple of requests for cocktail top-ups on his way out. The staff entrance led to a thoroughfare between the kitchen and the various galleries for hire on the west side of the Institute; he'd be able to access the foyer via the Red Room next door without raising the mole's suspicions.

Speaking of whom, the cool blonde was hot on Calvin's heels. Neal approached her, cutting off her exit, giving her his best photographer's smile. He had to waylay her without raising a whisper of suspicion, now or when she reflected on this later. The Merovingians mustn't know the FBI was flipping Calvin; so for the plan to work, and the suspected cache of artworks to be recovered, Neal couldn't con her. He had to be an event planner, nothing more or less. "Hi, I'm Victor. What's your name?"

"Excuse me?" She looked haughty and impatient, so Neal made his smile friendlier, making a connection, inviting her to join the fun. She tossed her hair but smiled back at him. "I'm Anneke, but I can't stop. I have to make a phone call."

"It can wait a few minutes, can't it?" Neal turned her back toward the throng. "We're about to take some group photos and cut the cake. You wouldn't want to miss that." He raised his voice and clapped his hands. "Ladies and gentlemen, please indulge us. It's time to take some group photos with the guest of honor, Mrs. Dennie Sullivan. Please assemble by the cake."

The guests began to move, creating a tide of people, and Neal swept Anneke along with them, careful to keep her in his sights while he arranged the guests. He couldn't put her in the middle of the group—Dennie wouldn't want a stranger at the center of her party photo—so he placed her at the edge between June and El, where they could keep an eye on her.

"You're all looking gorgeous tonight," he told the group. "Now, quiet everyone, and smile. Just think of the cake." 

He stretched out the photo session with some novelty shots until the guests began to get restive, and then El said a few words, looking like a glamorous circus ringmaster in her top hat. Dennie cut the cake, and June—as gracious and implacable as a queen—engaged Anneke in conversation.

About ten minutes after he'd left, Calvin reappeared and stowed the gym bag back behind the coat stand. Neal gave June a covert thumbs-up, and she let Anneke go. And a few minutes after that, Peter returned with a bag of lemons he'd planted earlier and went straight back to the bar.

Neal caught his eye across the room, and Peter brushed his thumb down his nose in the old signal. Neal grinned and returned the gesture, checked the party was running smoothly and went over to get the inside scoop.

El bounced up to the bar at the same time, beaming. "My first event back, your first event, and it's going great."

"You make a fantastic team." Peter passed a cocktail to the man in the yellow-rose waistcoat and wiped his hands on a towel. The man left, and they were briefly alone.

Neal jerked his head toward Calvin. "He give you any trouble?"

"Not once Jones offered to come inside and ask his grandmother for a character reference. Junior didn't want to ruin her birthday any more than we did. He was terrified she'd tell his parents." Peter smirked. "You know, he had a pretty good plan: disable the security cameras, replace the painting with a forgery."

"Is that so?" said Neal. 

"Don't worry, your forgery was better."

"Goes without saying," said El.

Neal rewarded her loyalty by putting his arm around her waist. "And Dennie's having a good time?"

El grinned. "So much so, she said she's going to hire us again for her 70th, and this time she wants a Beatles theme, including impersonators. Only she must be kind of drunk—how many Diamond Roses have you made her, hon?—because she said she'd give us a thousand dollar bonus if John and Paul kiss each other during 'In My Life.'"

Neal laughed and raised his eyebrows at Peter. "How about it? I'll be John, you can be Paul."

"Not a chance." Peter looked appalled at the prospect. "I'll keep my kissing offstage, thanks all the same."

"Well, speaking of bonuses," said El, "I think we've all earned a drink. Barman, three Vanilla Silks, if you please."

"Anything for the lady in the hat." Peter lined up three martini glasses and began to mix.

Soon, Neal would have to go and print out the photos, select the best and compile Dennie's memory book, but he could take a minute to revel with his loved ones first. They all clinked glasses.

El rested her hand on Neal's lapel. "So, babe, how did it feel to have your artwork prominently displayed in a reputable gallery for once?"

"Oh, no," said Peter. "The Magnelli wasn't even his first one here in the Vogel."

"You knew about that?" Neal's stomach swooped reflexively, but Peter just grinned, warm and fond, and El snickered, so Neal laughed too and gave El's question proper consideration. "It feels like—" 

He looked around the room, at the clusters of rose-and-silk-clad guests, at Dennie laughing with June, and everyone savoring their chocolate silk cake, their faces happy in the soft light, all of it the product of honest hard work. Then he looked at Peter, handsome and relaxed in his bartender's tux, and El in her top hat, sipping her cocktail with evident pleasure, and something inside him softened and glowed. 

"It feels like this party is the real work of art."

 

END

**Author's Note:**

> [Cover art/fic link on tumblr.](http://china-shop.tumblr.com/post/123584611656/deja-vu-in-the-promised-land-14979-words-by)
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> Painting: Lyric Explosion No. 14: Intoxicated Man (Explosion lyrique No. 14: L'homme ivre) by Alberto Magnelli http://www.guggenheim.org/new-york/collections/collection-online/artwork/2592


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